Lessons in Tenacity
by DogwoodsAndBluebells
Summary: If there was one word Phil Coulson would pick to describe himself, it would be loyal. If Clint Barton had to pick a word to describe Phil Coulson, that wasn't profanity, it would be tenacious. Rated for language.
1. Lesson One: Recruitment

Summary: If there was one word Phil Coulson would pick to describe himself, it would be _loyal_. If Clint Barton had to pick a word to describe Phil Coulson, that wasn't profanity, it would be _tenacious_. Rated for language.

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Lessons in Tenacity

* * *

_Lesson One: Recruitment_

"Damn it all," Fury swore, staring at the most recent mission report. Phil Coulson stood silently next to the young Agent Maria Hill, thankful that his boss's anger was directed at the now dead assailants and not at him. "This," Fury pointed one callused finger at the offending brief. "Should never have happened."

"No sir," Hill agreed fiercely, her lips drawn tightly into a frown. Phil said nothing, but silently concurred. The mission in South Africa should never have gotten as close to failure as it did, courtesy of a few well trained marksmen that were employed by the terrorists. They'd picked apart the SHIELD ground team, sending three agents home in body bags, and nearly allowing the slave trader to escape.

Fury scowled at the paper again. "Coulson." Phil snapped to attention. "Find me an expert marksman."

Phil's mouth went dry. "Yes, sir." Fury nodded, satisfied, and dismissed the two agents without a second thought. Once in the relative safety of the hallway, with Fury's door shut, Phil let his shoulders slump slightly. Hill glanced at him with something akin to sympathy in her eyes

"Where, exactly," she asked gently, "are you planning on finding this marksman?"

Phil looked at her with his bleakest expression. "I have no idea."

* * *

In the end, Phil decided to call up his old friends in the military and simply ask if they knew of anyone. He'd kept in touch with most of them over the intervening years, and more than one owed him a favor. Phil decided that it was time to collect.

He'd made a list of those friends he knew were still on active duty, and had called about a dozen or so on his list before he got to Colonel Marcus James. Marcus had gone to West Point with him, and was one of the nicest guys Phil knew, so long as he was outside of a war zone.

"_Well I do have a sniper,_" James began hesitantly, and Phil sucked in a hopeful breath. "_But you won't want him._"

Phil frowned at the receiver. "What? Why not?"

James was uncharacteristically solemn on the other end of the phone. "_He's DH, buddy._"

Phil snorted, leaning back in his chair. "You know we don't really care about that kind of thing," he admonished. "Come on, what's his name?"

"_I'm serious, Phil,_" James insisted. "_He's a whole new kind of mess that you won't want._

There was a hint of pleading in James's voice, and Phil sobered, suddenly knowing that there was more to this story than James was telling. He waited a beat before he asked, in his calmest voice, "Why was he dishonorably discharged?"

He could hear James settling more comfortably in his chair. "_I was sent with a five man team to take out one of Saddam's higher ups. Our sniper was on a ridge, overlooking the building. The ground team was just a distraction, just there to draw this guy out enough line for sniper fire._" James sighed. "_His kids were with him, and he was using them as shields. Our sniper backed off and we lost our shot._"

Phil was quiet for a moment, processing the information. "So, your sniper decided that the mental stability of a couple of kids was more important than taking out a target?"

"_Our sniper,_" James corrected firmly. "_Disobeyed a direct order. And it wasn't the first time. God love that kid, he's got an issue with authority like nothing I've ever seen. Why he joined the Army is beyond me, buddy._"

Phil chewed on the end of his pen, thinking. "Where is he now?"

"_I should have known you'd take him anyway,_" James chuckled tiredly. "_You always did have that bad habit of picking up strays._"

Phil ignored the subtle chastisement, uncapping his pen with restrained excitement. "Address, Marcus. We can discuss my bad habits later."

"_Assuming he hasn't drunk himself into an early grave?_" Phil waited silently. "_He talked about an old family ranch down in Oklahoma. You should find him at the bottom of a bottle there._"

Phil nodded, writing down the snippets of information on his notepad. "Name?"

"_Clint Barton._"

* * *

There had been no lights on at the ranch, and no one had answered, so Phil drove back to the strip of buildings the locals called town. He tried desperately not to feel out of place in his suit as he walked into the seediest bar he'd ever seen. The walls were visibly dirty, caked with decades of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, and was populated almost exclusively with middle-aged, plaid-wearing patrons. He glanced around, looking for anyone under the age of forty in the dim lighting, when he caught sight of the lone figure at the end of the bar.

Barton had foregone the glass and was sitting alone with a diminishing pitcher of beer and a bottle of Jack. He still wore military clothing, as if he couldn't quite let go of it yet, but his crew cut was starting to grow out. Smoke curled lazily around his head as he exhaled a drag from his cigarette, the lines around his eyes deepening. The kid was barely twenty years old, but war and shame had hardened him. Phil had seen that look before, on broken soldiers that knew their only place in the world was on a battlefield. This kid was going to be one tough nut to crack, all anger at the world and self-loathing. Steeling himself for the imminent battle, Phil walked purposefully over and took the barstool next to him.

"I'll have a Budweiser." He nodded at the bartender, clasping his hands on the counter. He glanced over at Barton, watched him take another drag from the cigarette and wash the smoke down with a swallow of whiskey. "Looks like you're having a worse day than me," he said conversationally, thanking the bartender when his beer was placed in front of him.

Barton made no acknowledgement that Phil had even spoken, taking a long draught from his bottle instead. Shrugging out of his jacket, Phil laid it on the bar and loosened his tie. He spied the dogtags resting on Barton's sternum as he was rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and suddenly cocked his head, contemplative. Bringing up the service would be a gamble, but it might jar the sniper into talking. Being yelled at would be a step up from being ignored, Phil reasoned.

"You in the Army?"

Barton froze, the bottle of Jack halfway to his lips. Turning slowly, he fitted Phil with an icy glare that would pierce most men with fear. Phil smiled.

"I was too, once," he continued, pretending to be oblivious to the deepening scowl on the sniper's face. "I left though, when there was better offer."

Barton finally moved and Phil tensed, ready for the swing that he was sure was heading for his jaw. Instead of slugging him, Barton leaned swiftly over the bar and snatched a handful of darts from beneath the counter. The bartender glared at him, but Barton merely flipped him off. Picking up his Jack, he walked over to the dartboards and lined himself up.

The first round was disgustingly accurate for the amount of alcohol that Barton had to have consumed, but Phil could see the coiled anger in his movements. Picking up his warming beer, he joined Barton to watch.

"It's a great job, really," he announced genially, picking right up where he left off. Barton's eye twitched with irritation at the sound of his voice. "I'm with the Strategic Homeland -,"

Barton whirled, one dart held menacingly before Phil's eye. "I could kill you twelve ways to Sunday with this," he snarled, pointing the dart at Phil for emphasis.

Phil's deeply seated, inner smartass emerged, and he let his lips curl in a satisfying smirk. "I'd love to see you try, Barton."

Despite his buzz, the shift in the sniper's demeanor was instantaneous. His muscles bunched beneath the worn jacket, the grip on the dart in his hand becoming more suited for attack than play. Phil forced himself to relax.

"At ease, Clint," he murmured reassuringly over the din of the other inhabitants of the bar. "I'm here to offer you a job."

There was a long series of heartbeats where Phil was certain that he'd soon have a dart-shaped hole in his new suit, but Barton surprised him again by suddenly relaxing. The transformation smoothed the angry lines from his face, making him look much more like the lost kid he was. He took a long swig from his bottle, wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve.

"Not looking, pal," he muttered, turning back to the dartboard. "You wouldn't want me anyway."

Phil let his breath out in a relieved sigh, pleased with the progress he was making. "Why not?"

Barton snorted. "The Army wouldn't even have me. I got dishonorably discharged a while back." Three darts sank into the red cork of the bullseye. "All for having a decent set of morals. No room for that shit under Uncle Sam."

"We're not the Army," Phil replied gently, carefully keeping his voice level and unsympathetic. When Barton made no move to end his game, Phil's hand shot out and gripped his wrist with just enough force to garner attention. "We're not the Army, Barton," he reiterated as the sniper finally made eye contact. "And you're going to want this job."

Barton looked pointedly at the hold Phil had on his wrist. Phil simply raised his brows in silent question. Barton huffed, rolling his eyes. "If I listen to your damned spiel, will you go the fuck away?"

Phil smiled, releasing him. "I'll do you one better," he offered. "If you can drink me under the table, I will walk out that door and you'll never see me again." Barton looked grimly pleased with the suggestion. "But," Phil continued. "If I outdrink you, you come into headquarters with me and sign up."

Barton snorted. "Deal."

* * *

Phil led an extremely inebriated Barton through the hallways of headquarters, somewhat surprised that his nap in the helicopter hadn't seemed to decrease his drunkenness whatsoever. Growing exasperated with Barton's instability, he finally looped the younger man's arm around his neck and hauled the sniper towards his tiny office. As they passed the main lounge, Director Fury stepped out into the hall.

He raised his brow at the pair, his nose wrinkling as the fumes of alcohol and cigarette smoke reached him. "Coulson, what the fuck is this?"

Phil shifted Barton's weight on his shoulders, his heart hammering. "Your expert marksman, sir."

Clint grinned unabashedly at Fury, and opened his mouth. Unwilling to take any chance that the kid could offend his director, Phil slammed a hand over Barton's lips. Fury waited a beat, simply staring at the tableau in front of him, before he rolled his eye at Phil.

"I do not want to know," he said firmly. "Just sober his ass up and get him to the range for testing. I want a full evaluation of this kid by fifteen hundred tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Phil replied, dragging Barton away from the director. Shoving him unceremoniously through his office door, Phil sat him in the chair in front of the desk and threw himself down with a heavy sigh. His suit reeked of sketchy bar and his buzz was quickly wearing off from the adrenaline rush that meeting Fury had given him, but he grinned with satisfaction. Barton dropped his head to the desk, groaning.

Phil let him finish sleeping it off for an hour, making arrangements to have a junior agent retrieve the car they'd left behind when the helicopter picked them up. He scheduled Barton's exams, printed off the necessary forms, and set a bottle of water and two pills of Advil next him. When Barton finally cracked one bleary eye at him and scowled, Phil smiled pleasantly.

"Good morning, sunshine."

"Fuck you," Barton replied, his voice hoarse. He grimaced at the light blazing through the window behind Phil, dropping his bloodshot gaze. Barton finally spied the Advil at Phil's elbow and his eyes zeroed in on them like a hawk.

Phil placed his palm over the pills, biting back a smirk when Barton audibly growled. "You can have these once you've signed the admission forms."

Barton stared at him, then sat up, glancing around the office with suspicion. "Did you kidnap me?"

"No," Phil replied calmly. "You were perfectly willing to come a few hours ago when I invited you. You even agreed to join."

Barton glared at him, his mind beginning to clear. "I'm leaving," he said, standing. The sudden shift in equilibrium was not a wise choice, and Phil passed him a waste can. When Barton slumped back into his seat, he glowered petulantly. "You can't keep me here. I have rights."

"We're beyond rights, now," Phil retorted, leaning back comfortably in his chair. Barton rummaged in his jacket, crowing triumphantly when his questing hands emerged with his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Phil frowned. "Those will kill you, you know."

Barton arched his brow. "What are you, my mother?"

"I'm your handler," Phil corrected, sliding the admission forms closer and setting a pen on top. "You'll have unlimited access to the latest technology, twice the pay you were receiving with the same benefits, and anonymity in all of your actions." Barton met his gaze at Phil's last point. "I told you last night; we're not the Army. What have you got to lose?"

Barton was silent for so long that Phil started getting nervous. The kid finally relaxed, almost imperceptibly, and held out his hand. "Give me the fucking pills."

"Sign the papers."

"Fuck, you're pushy," Barton groused, snatching up the pen and scrawling something illegible at the bottom of the form.

"Forceful," Phil corrected, placing the forms into Barton's file and dropping the tablets in Barton's palm.

"Annoying," Barton countered as he popped the medicine, guzzling half of the proffered water with them.

Phil smirked, just enough to remind Barton who exactly had won their little contest. "In charge," he replied with finality, rising from his seat. "Now, get up," he commanded, slapping the folder against Barton's shoulder. "You've got evals to pass, Sunshine."

* * *

_Fin._


	2. Lesson Two: Orientation

Summary: If there was one word Phil Coulson would pick to describe himself, it would be _loyal_. If Clint Barton had to pick a word to describe Phil Coulson, that wasn't profanity, it would be _tenacious_. Rated for language.

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Lessons in Tenacity

* * *

_ Lesson Two: Orientation_

Phil waited patiently in the hallway outside the training range, ignoring the whispers that drifted down the hall. A few brave, young agents peeked around the corner at him as he stood perfectly straight in front of the door. Hill shot him an exasperated smile as she passed that he returned with slight amusement. Word about the newly minted Agent Barton, and his colorful arrival at headquarters two days prior, had already spread like wildfire among the other agents, giving both Phil and Barton a sheen of grandeur that Phil secretly found hilarious.

His attention was pulled to the sound of movement behind the door, and Agent Barton finally emerged from the range, throwing a careless wave to the instructor behind him. Fixing his grey gaze on Phil, he narrowed his eyes as the range instructor followed him out of the room and handed Barton's scores to Phil with thinly veiled annoyance.

"I really am stuck with you, aren't I?"

"I'm afraid so," Phil murmured in response to Barton's question, flicking through the pages he'd been given. He glanced back up at Barton, taking note of his regained color. "Looks like you've finally gotten over your hangover."

Barton shrugged nonchalantly, eyeing a pack of eavesdropping agents curiously. "It's a process."

"A two day process?"

Barton drew himself up and glared at Phil. "Sometimes, two days are necessary."

"I'm sure they are," Phil replied lightly, trying not to allow his lips to twitch into a smile as he continued paging through Barton's scores. "Let's not repeat the experience any time soon, shall we?"

Barton bristled, pointing an accusing finger in Phil's face and obscuring the record high marks written on the eval sheet. "You were the one that suggested the drinking contest."

"True," Phil agreed, closing the folder with a decisive snap. "But I wasn't the one that decided to chug a good fourth of a bottle of Jack to prove that I was the better man."

Pivoting on his heel, Phil walked down the hall. Mildly abashed, Barton trotted after him. "So." Barton rubbed at the hair standing wildly on the back of his head. "Where are we going?"

"You've seen nothing but the training facility for the last two days," Phil told him, pushing through a set of doors and nodding at Agent Sitwell as he passed. "We're going on a tour before I take you back to your room. You'll be reporting for duty tomorrow at oh seven hundred, so you'll need some rest."

It took most of the morning to show Barton the extent of the ground base, pointing out the briefing rooms, the many levels of research and design, and the common areas for the agents. They stopped off in the mess for a late lunch and Phil was immediately cornered by Director Fury. Motioning for Barton to find a seat in the emptying hall, Phil gave his attention to his director.

Never one to mince words, Fury jumped right to the heart of the matter. "How did he do?"

"Unbelievably, sir," Phil responded, reluctantly surprised. "Colonel James neglected to inform me of his basic qualifications beyond his ability as a marksman."

Fury nodded, and Phil flicked his eyes over to where Barton was avidly watching their conversation. His gaze was so focused that Phil had the sudden, distressing though that Barton could read lips. "Why was he available, then, if he is so qualified?"

Phil shifted imperceptibly, bringing his attention back to the conversation. "He was dishonorably discharged, sir."

Fury stilled for one heart stopping moment. "Why?"

"Failing to obey a direct order on multiple occasions."

Fury's eye narrowed and Phil bit back the urge to swallow heavily, knowing that the director would take it as a sign of weakness and not the completely innocent, suddenly dry throat that it was. "Then why is he here?"

"Because he's the best," Phil replied honestly, hazarding a glance at Barton. The expression on the new agent's face hadn't changed, but there was an air of resignation about his person that set Phil's teeth on edge. Fury leaned back on his heels and eyed Phil with interest.

"You really believe in this kid, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. I do," Phil answered with as much force as he thought he could get away with. "And if you don't believe my instincts, then check his evals."

Fury arched a brow at Phil's impertinence, but took the offered folder nonetheless. A quick glance through had Fury whistling lowly. "Damn."

"Exactly." Phil tamped down on the relief and vindication swelling in his chest.

Handing the folder back to Phil, Fury held his gaze. "Agent Barton is your responsibility, Agent Coulson. Remember that."

"Of course, sir," Phil agreed solemnly, watching Fury stalk off with a sense of release. Turning back to the table, he found Barton inexplicably interested in his meal. Sliding into his seat, Phil had no sooner picked up his silverware when Barton spoke.

"So when am I leaving?"

Casually, Phil sliced through his piece of meatloaf with deliberation. "You leave, Agent Barton, when I allow you to," he replied carefully. When he felt Barton's surprised gaze, he met the kid's eyes and quirked his lips in a grin. "And don't pretend you weren't reading our lips."

Barton leaned back in his chair. "How could you tell?"

"I'm a trained agent," Phil reminded him dryly, reaching for the salt. "And the last time someone stared at my face that intently was right before they kissed me. So, given the options, I'd prefer it if you were reading my lips rather than daydreaming about them."

Barton paused as Phil continued to casually eat his lunch and finally he burst into low chuckles. "Sorry to disappoint you, buddy, but you're not really my type."

"Well, that's a comfort."

Barton's lips twitched. "I'm impressed though," he continued, dousing his own slice of meatloaf in ketchup. "I didn't think you had a sense of humor beneath that suit."

"I have a sense of humor," Phil countered, thinking of what he'd been up to in R&D the last couple of days. "You might not always like it, but I have one."

Barton grinned, forking a piece of meatloaf. "Well, that's a comfort."

The final leg of the tour followed lunch, including the main ops center and a few of the smaller intel and computer labs. Finally looping their way back to the living quarters, Phil glanced back at his agent.

"Need a map?"

Barton shook his head thoughtfully. "I think I can manage," he murmured, his eyes darting around that hallway. They'd come to know each other a little better, and were on somewhat better terms than they'd been when they started. Barton wasn't openly staring at him with disdain or annoyance, which Phil took as a plus. Turning the final corner, Phil took out a key and opened one of the doors, walking in.

"Your things have been brought in, so you should have some time to unpack. Dinner service begins at seventeen hundred and lasts until twenty one hundred. I'll collect you at oh seven hundred tomorrow morning." Glancing back over his shoulder as he set the key on the dresser, Phil frowned. Barton was standing stock still in the doorway, his eyes fixed on something across the room. "Is the room not to your liking? Because there's nothing you can to about that. It's better than a barracks, at any rate. You don't have to share."

Ignoring Phil's subtle tease, Barton pointed at the suit hanging on the closet door. "What the _fuck_ is that?"

Turning, Phil's eyes lit on what was so distressing to the new agent and bit back a smirk as he remembered. "That's your uniform," he replied, working to keep the amusement out of his voice. Barton continued staring at the garment hanging innocently on the door.

"It's purple," he said flatly.

Phil cocked his head at the uniform. The top was sleeveless, at Barton's request, and a deep violet color that was overlaid with black reinforcements at the shoulders and sides. "Not all of it," he hedged.

Barton glanced at him with slitted eyes. "Why?"

"All black uniforms are too visible," Phil explained with restrained glee, ignoring Barton's indignant snort of protest. "All an enemy has to do is look for the absence of color or light. This will blend into the shadows much better, without the added risk of discovery."

Barton made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "It is _fucking purple_!"

"Do you want the truth about why it's purple, or do you want me to lie to you?" Barton whirled on Phil, glaring. Phil capitulated.

"Keep in mind that you were happy to discover my sense of humor," he warned. "Navy blue would work just as well, but I convinced R&D to use purple after you irritated me the other night when you were drunk. This is payback."

"How?" Barton snarled, clearly torn between frustration at Coulson's nonchalance and curiosity.

Phil smirked. "You puked on my shoes."

Barton blinked at him, clearly taken aback and just the slightest bit embarrassed at the revelation. He shifted, and his face took on another expression of protest, so Phil crossed his arms.

"Twice."

Barton froze for a beat, looking desperately at the uniform, and finally slumped in resignation.

"Fine.

* * *

_Fin._


	3. Lesson Three: Training

Summary: If there was one word Phil Coulson would pick to describe himself, it would be _loyal_. If Clint Barton had to pick a word to describe Phil Coulson, that wasn't profanity, it would be _tenacious_. Rated for language.

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Lessons in Tenacity

* * *

_Lesson Three: Training_

Clint held his breath as he gently eased the door open, thankful that the hinges were well oiled. He carefully placed one booted foot inside the room, making sure to step toe to heel in order to minimize the noise from his footfalls. His weapon was out and at the ready, the barrel aimed menacingly before him as he slipped silently into the room.

It was empty at first glance, unnaturally so, and then the hairs on Clint's neck slowly rose, tingling. There was movement in the corner of his eye and he whipped his gun on that direction. Two soft _pop_s took out the man stationed in the kitchen, and he fell with a quiet grunt.

_One._

The noise seemed to be a signal, as three rose from behind various pieces of furniture in the living room. Vaulting the kitchen counter, Clint took cover behind the cabinets and fired off three quick rounds. They landed a bit messily, but hit their marks.

_Two. Three. Four._

Someone burst from the walk-in pantry and Clint was caught off guard for a split second. As the mark rushed him, he used the butt of his gun to take a swing at the approaching enemy. The hit dazed his opponent, but not enough to stop him, and Clint slung his weapon over his shoulder in favor of hand to hand combat.

He blocked the incoming fist with his forearm and winded the other with two quick jabs to the solar plexus. The uppercut aiming to knock out his opponent missed as the attacker threw himself forward and use the momentum to knock Clint into the wall. He grunted with the impact, thoroughly annoyed, and brought his knee into the other's abdomen. The third hit finally had an effect and the foreign grip on Clint slackened. As he went down, Clint dropped him to the floor and pulled his weapon from his shoulder, firing one shot into his back.

_Five._

The house was silent for a few moments, and Clint closed his eyes to sharpen his hearing. A faint creaking had him inching into the back hallway. He caught sight of a dark flash in the window to his right, and Clint zeroed in on a sixth man advancing on the house. He began to sprint when he saw Clint staring at him, trying to reach cover.

He wasn't fast enough.

Clint picked up a picture frame, ignoring the happy family smiling up at him and hurled it through the window. The glass shattered loudly, alerting anyone who wasn't already aware of his presence. Swiveling, he aimed the barrel of his weapon out of the newly created hole and fired twice, sending the approaching target sprawling onto the ground.

_Six_.

The next mark was clearly new at the game and got his pants caught trying to sneak attack Clint from the space beneath the bed and his friend burst from the closet a minute too soon.

_Seven_. _Eight._

Two more snuck into the bedroom from the door to the back, prompting another hand to hand session that ended with Clint the victor and at least four bruised ribs between his attackers.

_Nine. Ten._

The four in the bathroom were laughably easy to eradicate, jammed into the tiny space like sardines. He first hit the one seated on the back of the toilet seat, caught rather more unaware than Clint would have thought.

_Eleven. _

Down came the shower curtain and two pops of his weapon had taken care of the pair standing in the tub.

_Twelve. Thirteen. _

"I feel like Norman Bates," he muttered beneath his breath and swiftly turned to nail the target hidden just out of view in the linen cupboard.

_Fourteen._

Clint stood quietly for a second, mentally tallying the marks, and froze at both the number he arrived at and the barest hint of movement above him. Forcing his muscles to relax, Clint shifted, giving the impression that he was turning back towards the hallway. At the last second, he brought his gun around and leveled at the face that was peeking out of the attic entrance.

_Fifteen_.

Clint grinned, satisfied, relishing his victory, when the impact to the back of his head sent him stumbling forward. Whirling on his feet, his weapon at the ready, he stared in shock at Coulson's face as the paintball paint dripped steadily down his skull and below his jacket collar.

"But there were only supposed to be fifteen," he protested, his mouth spilling out the first thing that came to mind as the other agents began to pick themselves up and clean the paint from their skin and clothes.

Coulson tutted beneath his breath and Clint discovered the most annoying sound on the planet. "Rule number four is to trust your intel, but to never take it face value. If this had been anything other than a simulation, you'd be dead."

Clint muttered something beneath his breath that Phil was certain was meant to be unflattering as he waited patiently for the younger man to collect his thoughts. Phil almost knew what Clint was going to say before the younger man finally turned to him.

"How did you stay hidden that long?" Clint asked, his eyes narrowed in thought. "There's no way you could have stayed in the same place the whole time without me seeing you."

"I did," Phil replied, with a solemn nod and a small smile that threatened to overtake his face at Barton's incredulity.

The younger man's face degenerated into a scowl. "How?"

Phil held up one finger. "You don't check your corners when you enter a room." His grin widened as he lifted a second digit. "And, I'm persistent."

"That is crap," Barton exclaimed, pointing a finger at his handler. "I blame you."

Phil sighed softly and the conversation degenerated into a something that was more suited to a pair of five year olds, each side claiming that they were undeniably the victor.

* * *

"You saw them too, didn't you?"

Fury turned from the video feed to eye his young first lieutenant. She didn't falter under his scrutinizing gaze, reminding Fury just why he'd chosen her as his second in command, despite her lack of age and experience.

"I did."

He felt Hill move to stand beside him, her eyes on the monitor that showed the agents exiting the training facility. Barton was still arguing somewhat with Coulson, although it seemed less heated than it had moments before. There was a flash on the screen, the light catching on a pair of dogtags that glinted every time Barton moved.

"He's going to have to take those off, isn't he?"

Fury didn't turn from the screen, watching Coulson finally prod Barton towards the hall with the barrel of his paintball gun. "They are a liability," he murmured in response. "So, yes, Agent Hill. He'll have to take them off."

She was quiet for a long moment. "Have fun telling him that."

Her sarcastic tone was nearly as surprising as her insubordination. Fury hadn't thought that she'd had the capability to be comical. Turning, he raised one eyebrow in her direction.

She smirked lightly back at him, pointing one lithe finger at the empty screen. "Barton has been discharged for what, a year now?"

"Almost," Fury replied, shifting to face her and crossing his arms. "Your point?

"He's been a civilian for that long and he still wears his dogtags?" She raised both of her brows in slight incredulity. "Beneath his shirt, where no one can see them? He's hiding them, on purpose, because he doesn't want to be asked about them, but neither can he let them go. They are a safety net for him, and I don't want to be the one to tell him he's got to take them off."

Fury blinked at her, staggered by her insight. He turned away from her searching gaze for a moment, returning his attention to the screen where Barton had doubled back and was now prowling the empty mock-house to find Coulson's hiding spot.

"I'm not so sure I want to tell him that either," Fury admitted, watching Barton inspect the space behind the front door. Very slowly, a grin overtook his face. "It's a good thing he has a handler for these things, don't you agree?"

* * *

_Fin._


	4. Lesson Four: Mission Prep

Summary: If there was one word Phil Coulson would pick to describe himself, it would be _loyal_. If Clint Barton had to pick a word to describe Phil Coulson, that wasn't profanity, it would be _tenacious_. Rated for language.

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Lessons in Tenacity

* * *

_Lesson Four: Mission Prep_

Clint raised one eyebrow at him and Phil bit back on a sigh at the display of insubordination. "So it's a standard assassination," the new agent said flatly, and Phil really did sigh.

"There's nothing standard about this, Barton," he explained patiently.

Clint snorted, reclining in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "To you. I've done a dozen of these kinds of ops. Standard. Assassination."

"Xanax," Phil muttered beneath his breath as he dragged a hand across his brow. "Xanax would help this."

Barton had the audacity to chuckle, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling.

"I get that you're worried," the younger man offered, suddenly turning a serious eye to his handler. "It's my first mission since you brought me in. I'm an unknown quantity and you're going to take the flak if I fuck up like I did in the Gulf. So I get it."

Phil blinked in muted surprise at Barton's astute assessment of the situation. Clint shrugged lightly, offering a small smile. Phil was about to say something when there was a discreet tap on the door and the moment was broken.

"Come in," he called, and Clint leaned back to reach a hand out and turn the handle. One of the laboratory assistants from Research and Development was standing restlessly outside Phil's tiny office, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Phil gentled his features and smiled at the tech, who, honestly, looked just shy of eighteen. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Barton shot him a sardonic look that clearly displayed his distaste at Phil's congenial attitude. Ignoring him, Phil raised his brows at the assistant's silence.

"Oh, uh," the young man stuttered. "I'm here for Agent Barton. Sir."

Clint turned slowly to face the kid, eyeing him lazily. "Yeah?"

Nervously, the tech held up a gray, oval cylinder. "I'm here to retrieve your palm print, Agent Barton. For your weapon."

Dismissing the boy, Clint raised a brow at Phil in question.

"Each agent is given a personalized weapon before their first mission, tailored to their tastes. We've found that agents have better completion rates with custom weaponry than pulling randomly from the armory." He pointed at the cylinder the tech was clutching. "That's a clay grip to take your palm print, so that your gun barrel will be molded correctly."

Phil suppressed a grin at Clint's carefully blank face, knowing the young agent was more impressed than he was letting on. The tech shifted again, holding the mold out to Barton. The movement caught Clint's eye and he faced the assistant.

"Any weapon I want?"

The young man looked for Phil's affirmation before he confirmed. "Yes, sir. Any weapon."

Clint remained motionless, mulling the information over. After a moment's pause, he reached out suddenly and curled his right hand around the mold, startling the tech. When he released the cylinder and settled back into his chair, Phil cleared his throat.

"You're left handed."

Clint fidgeted in his seat, almost embarrassed. Phil watched him for a moment, unreasonably curious, while the lab assistant remained awkwardly in the doorway. Finally, Clint raised blazing eyes to the flustered tech.

"I want a bow."

The young man blinked rapidly in bemusement, both at the subject of Barton's impulsive request and the declaration itself.

"A what?"

Somewhat more at ease, now that he was in control of the situation, Clint snarked back his answer. "A bow. For arrows. Think Robin Hood, only way more cool."

The tech met Phil's amused gaze over Clint's head, acquiescing when Phil nodded. "Of course, Agent Barton," he said, inching out of the doorway. "We'll have something ready in the morning."

The young man reached back inside and pulled the door shut, the click sounding abnormally loud in the small room. Clint gave Phil a guileless smile. Phil raised his brows questioningly.

"A bow?"

Barton's face shuttered. "That a problem for you?"

"Not a bit," Phil replied easily, undeterred by his agent's abrupt mood change. "Just curiosity."

Clint shifted in his chair for a moment, picking at an imaginary spot on his jeans. He was silent for a few long minutes, but Phil was as patient as any sniper, and he really was interested as to why this military trained man wanted a weapon that predated ancient Egyptian civilization.

"Grew up on a farm," Clint finally murmured, his gaze firmly fixed on an innocuous point on the opposite wall. "My dad had a bow when I was little, some crap ass longbow he won at a fair when he was a kid."

Clint's eyes grew distant and the slightest smile touched his lips. "But when he took that thing out, it was beautiful. The man could hit anything, at any distance. And he taught me."

"Do you still have it?" The question broke another growing silence, if only to tell Barton that he was listening. Clint nodded slowly.

"It's in the attic. Couldn't bring myself to get rid of it after he died," he admitted, his gaze flicking back to his lap. Phil sat perfectly still, knowing that he'd never get the answers he wanted if he so much as broke Clint's concentration. "Dad used to say that using a bow isn't about the end result, or about looking neat. It was about the math."

Phil couldn't help himself. "Math?"

"Yeah." Clint glanced up at him, looking oddly vulnerable in his earnestness to explain. "When you aim an arrow, you can't point it directly at your target. The arrow slides past the bow when it's released, and that curves it away from the weapon and sets it in an oscillating pathway. You have to know your bow, your arrows, the distance, the force applied, everything. It's one, big-assed math problem in the split second that it takes you to nock, aim, and release.

"But it's not just math," he continued, his gaze drifting, clearly still lost in a place between childhood memory and actual fact. "It's instinct. You can be the most brilliant mathematician in the world, but without the gut feeling about how your arrow's going to fly before you release it, there's no point.

"Dad always liked that about archery."

Phil, more awed and moved than he cared to admit, leaned forward slightly. "And you?"

Clint faced him and grinned, his eyes shadowed with something unknown. "I always liked it because the girls thought it was turn-on."

Phil laughed despite himself, respecting Clint's decision to change to the subject. Piling the brief papers and sliding them into a folder, he handed it to Clint.

"Read up on this and get some shuteye. We meet back here at oh four hundred and leave within an hour. Make sure you bring that with you."

Clint mock saluted him. "Sir, yes sir."

The young agent slipped nonchalantly from the office, whistling a country tune as he walked down the corridor. Phil waited a few beats before he stepped over to his bookshelf and pulled down the first book of an old and dusty encyclopedia set. Taking a few minutes to find what he was looking for, he committed the passage to memory and ducked into the hallway.

He slipped quietly into R&D, confident that he hadn't been followed, and zeroed in on the lab tech that had taken Clint's palm print. The young man finally looked up and swallowed heavily as Phil stalked over, his eyes sweeping over the tables of materials and weaponry.

"How is Agent Barton's request coming?"

The poor kid looked close to fainting, and his superior stepped in. The man was the quintessential image of a researcher, all balding white hair and horn-rimmed glasses. His lab coat was pristine and embroidered with the name "Dr. Walker."

"Agent Barton," Walker began testily, which immediately set Phil on edge. "Informed us today that he required, of all things, a bow and arrows for his mission tomorrow morning. Considering the late timing of the request and the mountain of other work we have to do, his request has been tabled. We'll give him a standard Glock .45 for his mission and a Bravo-51, if it's required."

Phil's eyes narrowed and he felt his whole body tense. "You'll give him what he asked for, Doctor."

Walker sneered, rolling his eyes. "You agents are all the same. You think we've got nothing going on down here, that you can just drop in whenever you feel like it and order us around and we'll cower like good little scientists. Well, I won't."

"It's quite possible that you misunderstood me," Phil informed him, his hands clenching at his sides. The lab assistant froze and took a step backwards, distancing himself from his oblivious boss. "Agent Barton was asked, today, for his palm print and was unaware of our standard procedures."

"Then that was your fault, wasn't it, Agent Coulson?" Walker smirked, folding his arms across his chest. Their conversation was gathering a small crowd, various other scientists and techs abandoning their projects to watch the scuffle unfold. "It's just too bad that your mistake will cost him his weapon."

"No, actually, it won't," Phil replied.

Walker opened his mouth to retort when he finally stopped and took a long look at Phil's implacable face. The scientist started, visibly shaken by something cold and warning in Phil's eyes, and gulped lightly.

"Even if we were going to put all that aside," he stuttered. "We don't have the equipment necessary for a project of that type."

"You're SHIELD scientists," Phil said dryly, with a deceptively pleasant voice and hard eyes. "Try again."

"I think I can do it."

All eyes in the room turned to the young assistant who was holding tightly to the mold of Clint's palm print. The young man faltered under the scrutiny, though soon straightened with determination. Walker was glaring at him, but Phil stepped forward and blocked the older scientist's line of vision.

"Do you think you can have one ready by the morning?" he asked kindly.

The tech hesitated. "If I worked through the night and dedicated all my time to it, probably."

"Do it," Phil said as Walker protested, "I won't allow it."

Phil turned slowly to face Walker, well aware that he was literally radiating lethality. "Then let's go visit Director Fury and you can explain to him why you won't outfit his brand new sniper with the weapon that he requires for his top secret mission in the morning."

Walker rapidly paled, his face as white as his lab coat. Satisfied that his threat had been delivered, Phil turned to the young man.

"What's your name, son?"

"Ben Morrison, sir."

Phil smiled slightly. "I have a few ideas for the design, if you've got the time."

* * *

Barton was sitting outside his office door when Phil arrived in the morning, head leaned back against the wall. As Phil and Ben approached, they heard a soft snore emanate from the dozing agent. Ben snickered into his hand, and Barton was instantly awake.

He squinted up at Phil and then at his battered watch. "You're late."

"Two minutes," Phil replied, shouldering his way into the office. "Did you bring your brief?"

"S'right here," Clint muttered, shifting to pull the folder from the seat of his pants. He waved off Ben's offered hand and pushed himself off of the ground, rubbing at his eyes. His gaze finally lit on the case in Ben's hands and he focused on it. "What's that?"

"This," Ben announced proudly. "Is your new bow."

The young tech smiled, slightly giddy, and walked into the office. Clint followed dazedly, looking at Phil for confirmation. Phil simply smiled, gesturing to the lone chair. Clint dropped into it with a heavy thud and Ben set the case on the desk, apologizing to Phil for pushing a few papers out of the way. With as much of a flourish as he could manage, Ben opened the case to reveal Clint's new weapon.

"It's a standard recurve, the limbs of carbon fiber layers and the riser of an aluminum alloy and complete with optional stabilizers, a standard clicker, kisser, and plunger to compensate for the archer's paradox." Phil felt Clint look sharply at him, but he kept his focus on Ben's explanation. The young man continued on, oblivious to the undercurrents in the room.

"We'd tried a longbow at first, but the materials just weren't cooperating. Plus, the recurve adds a slight bit of force to the arrow as it leaves the string. We used Dacron for the bowstring, which flexes better. The arrows themselves are carbon wrapped around an aluminum core, very strong and very durable. The arrowheads are fixed blade broadheads, standard steel. Given enough time, I can make mechanical broadheads for you, if you prefer those." Concluding his technical explanation, Ben looked at Clint for approval.

Clint was still staring numbly at the bow, its black curve gleaming beautifully in the office lights. Realizing that he was expected to speak, Clint glanced up at the younger man. Reaching forward, he gingerly picked up the bow, running his hand over it reverently.

"The grip should fit perfectly," Ben offered quietly, his voice sounding oddly wise, and Clint met his eyes for the first time. While Clint was certain that Phil hadn't told the tech anything about _why_ Clint wanted a bow, the kid wasn't completely inept. The knowing and sympathetic glint to his eyes struck a chord in Clint that he didn't particularly want to dwell on. Returning his gaze to the bow, he fitted his right hand into the grip and tugged experimentally on the string, careful not to dry-fire the weapon.

After a few moments, he swallowed thickly. "You did good, kid," Clint muttered gruffly.

Ben gave Phil a blinding grin. "I'll go get back to work then."

"On what?"

"On the next version," Ben answered Clint with slight surprise. "We put this together in twelve hours. Think of what we can do with a couple of weeks."

Clint could only stare at him agape as he closed the door. Phil took pity on his agent and gently pushed the case closer. The noise caught Barton's attention and he turned to Phil.

"He considers himself a proper bowyer now," Phil said lightly, if only to break the tense silence that had settled in the office. Barton made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

"He's a baby," Clint said flatly.

"He's good at what he does," Phil countered. "This isn't even the first attempt. We ended up making another four before we finally got the alloys and dimensions right."

Clint's eyes narrowed, one brow arching curiously. "We?"

"Yes, we," Phil affirmed, leaning back in his chair. "I had a little help with the design, to begin with, and then it moved from being a longbow to a recurve, and Ben needed a few extra hands. As it was my agent's weapon, I was going to oversee the production, no matter what."

Clint seemed like he wanted to say something, but the tired look on Phil's face stopped him. His features softened. "Thanks."

Phil smiled. "No problem. Now," he announced, slapping his hands on the desk and standing. "We've got a little time before we ship out. Shall we take this thing to the range and get some practice in?"

Clint nodded firmly, still reverently fingering the polished grip, which was contentment enough for Phil. Flicking the young agent's ear as he passed, he grinned at the glare he received.

"Come on, Robin Hood. Let's see what you can do."

* * *

_Fin_.


	5. Lesson Five: First Mission Abroad

Summary: If there was one word Phil Coulson would pick to describe himself, it would be _loyal_. If Clint Barton had to pick a word to describe Phil Coulson, that wasn't profanity, it would be _tenacious_. Rated for language.

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Lessons in Tenacity

* * *

_Lesson Five: First Mission Abroad_

Phil knocked gently on Fury's door, anxiously adjusting his suit jacket. There was no reason to be nervous, he told himself. Clint's first mission had gone swimmingly, with none of the kinks or snags that usually cropped up during a maiden mission.

_So,_ he thought as Fury called him in. _Why am I here?_

What he voiced aloud instead was, "Good morning, Director. You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I did," Fury replied calmly, one hand extended to offer the unoccupied chair in front of his desk. "I wanted to talk with you about Agent Barton."

Phil took his seat, his brow deliberately smoothed of any curious wrinkles. "Agent Barton completed his initial mission satisfactorily, sir. Perfectly, actually, if I may say so."

"You may," Fury allowed, inclining his head in Phil's direction. "I'm not unhappy with his performance so far."

Phil shifted in his seat, getting more comfortable in light of Fury's praise. "Then what would you like to speak with me about?"

"Agent Hill and I noticed something during Barton's last training session that is of some concern."

"Last training session," Phil muttered to himself. His eyes lit up as he realized which simulation Fury was referring to. "Trust me, I think he's learned to clear the corners."

"I agree that having someone of his caliber forget such a detail was disconcerting, but that's not what I meant." Fury set his elbows on his desk and leaned forward, his face serious. "He still wears his dogtags."

Phil froze, his mind going absurdly blank. "Yes, I had noticed."

"And yet, he still has them," Fury retorted gently. When Phil remained silent, the director pressed. "They're a liability and you know that."

"Yes. Yes, I do," Phil admitted finally, after a few moments of quiet reflection. He looked up at Director Fury to find an oddly compassionate gaze coming from the normally stoic man. The unexpected concern struck a cord and Phil relaxed his standard impassive persona, sighing. "How am I supposed to get them without breaking the bond we've formed?"

Fury shrugged. "That's up to your discretion."

Phil couldn't help rolling his eyes, no longer concerned with being written up for insubordination. Fury held out his hands in a placating manner.

"He's your agent. You brought him in, and you handle him. This is one thing that you're going to have figure out on your own. No one knows him better than you do, and so there's no advice that I can give you that would be worth a penny."

Phil nodded. He glanced up after a moment. "Out of curiosity, what would you do?"

"Honestly?" Fury snorted at Phil's question. "I'd just ask him."

* * *

Coulson was fidgeting.

The act itself was innocuous, a rhythmic tapping of fingers against the desk blotter. The fact that the fingers belonged to _Coulson _was the interesting part. Clint had only known Phil for a few weeks, two months at the most, but he knew that the older agent never, _ever_ fidgeted.

It was enough to set Clint on edge.

"Why do you keep doing that?" His sudden question burst through the odd silence in the office. Coulson's fingers finally arrested and he looked up at Clint, startled. He flicked his eyes down at his hand, somewhat abashed.

"I didn't realize I was doing anything," he muttered quietly.

When he said nothing else, Clint let out a sigh. "You didn't answer my question."

"I need to ask you something, and it's going to be unpleasant," Coulson finally admitted, lacing his now-still fingers and setting them on the desk. "And I really, _really_, don't want to do it."

The archer's eyes sparkled. "I wear size -,"

"Do not finish that sentence," Coulson warned and Clint bit back on a grin.

He leaned back in his chair, propping his booted feet on the corner of the desk. "Fuck, just get it over with already."

"I need your dogtags."

Clint stilled, shifting to face the older agent at his unexpected statement. "What?"

"They are a liability," Phil murmured gently, his confidence seemingly bolstered. Clint stared at him with something akin to betrayal in his eyes, and Phil bit back on a wince. "They've got your name, your social security number, everything. They are completely traceable back to the United States and to us."

"They aren't SHIELD issue," Clint muttered sulkily, attempting to protest.

Phil shook his head. "Do you really think that's going to stop someone that is interested? Because, I don't."

Clint's fingers twitched as he repressed the urge to clutch at the warm metal beneath his shirt. "I kept them for my last mission."

"A mistake on my part," Phil acknowledged. "And one that Director Fury dressed me down for. While nothing went amiss there, that may not be the case this time."

Clint sat for a moment, his lips curled downwards in a severe frown that deepened the longer he thought. Finally, he reached a hand up and yanked the chain from his neck, dropping it to the table jerkily.

"Here," he said, shoving the bundle of pendant and chain towards Phil. His ease of movement belied the discomfort Phil could see in his eyes, and the older agent smiled sympathetically at his charge. Clint glared at him. "No way to trace me back to you now."

The young archer left immediately, his shoulders tight with tension and Phil sighed, dropping his head into his hands. He pressed the heels of his palms in his eyes, hoping the pressure of his hands would relieve some of the ache in his head.

The sun glinted off of the bits of metal and chain heaped on his desk, throwing flashes of light into his vision. He reached down, fingering the raised letters on the tags. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, he stood abruptly, gripping the tags in his hand, and left his office.

He was down at Ben's new office in less than five minutes. The young man looked up, alarmed, at his sudden entrance. Phil tossed the dogtags, the chain sliding loudly across the paper that Ben was reading. He grinned at the young scientist.

"How are you at metalworking?"

* * *

Clint was unusually quiet.

Phil knew why, of course, had watched him reach a hand up to finger the dogtags that were no longer there at least a dozen times over the course of the plane ride. It was enough to make the older agent squirm uncomfortably. He'd known that the tags were important to Clint, that much was obvious, but Phil had never really known _how_ important. Clearly, they were more than just something familiar; they had become a talisman to the archer.

Deciding that his best course of action would be to distract Clint, Phil leaned forward as much as the seat harness would allow. "Have you memorized the brief?"

"Yes." Clint rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. "This isn't going to be that hard of a mission."

Phil shrugged. "It's similar to your others, I'll admit. But that doesn't mean there can be room for mistakes."

"I'm not going to make a fucking mistake." Phil leaned back in the wake of Clint's vehemence and the archer sighed loudly. Dipping his hand into the bag at his feet, he removed a flask and took a drink. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Phil replied warily. "Got a problem you want to talk about?"

"The brief," Clint said succinctly, taking another drink and putting the flask back in his bag.

Phil made a leading gesture. "What about it?"

"I did read it," Clint said, leaning his head back. "And it's kind of familiar."

Phil mentally scanned the mission brief, desperately trying to remember why Clint would think that, when it hit him. The mark they were after was notoriously shady, someone who wouldn't hesitate to use women or children as shields in a manner similar to that of the mission that resulted in Clint's dishonorable discharge from the army. "Oh."

"Yeah."

Phil leaned forward again, clasping his hands in front of him seriously. "Clint, you know that I will back you, no matter what happens out there."

"And who's going to back you?" Clint sounded tired, his face oddly young in the dim light of the plane, and Phil found himself alternating between sympathetic and exasperated. Clint's hand went to his neck again and sympathy won out.

"Just trust me on this, Barton. Everything is going to be okay."

The plane began its descent and both men shook the conversation away, maintaining a comfortable quiet until Clint prepared to leave the safehouse for his mission.

"Take a jacket." Clint turned from the door with one raised brow to see Phil holding a coat out towards him. The older agent shook the garment for emphasis. "You might be there a while, and it's going to get chilly.

Clint snorted. "You sound like my mother."

"The last thing I need is Fury's star sniper catching pneumonia because he's a stubborn ass," Phil replied, rolling his eyes. He tossed the jacket at Clint, who caught it reflexively. "And I'm not your mother."

"I think I just found your new callsign," the archer announced, grinning, and pulled the jacket on.

Phil's eyes narrowed. "My callsign is Patriot."

"See if I use that, ever."

He laughed as he left, the lighthearted banter proving a subtle balm to his nervousness. He climbed the emergency stairwell to the roof, propping the door open with a brick. Making his way over to the wall, he dropped to his belly and shuffled closer to the edge, settling in to wait.

He stayed in the same position for hours, watching his mark in the building across the alley. Finally, Clint shifted, just slightly, and froze when he heard a soft _clink_ emanate from one of the endless pockets of his jacket. Keeping his eyes on the mark, he unzipped the closure and reached a hand inside. His questing fingers found metal, smooth and cool and uncannily familiar, and he pulled the pendant out.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed.

They weren't his dogtags, he told himself repeatedly. They weren't, but they were damned close. The tags hung from a standard ball chain, the sharp edges of the metal folded back. He passed the pad of his thumb over the raised lettering.

_Hawkeye_

The memory rose in his mind as if it had been yesterday, that seedy bar in Oklahoma taking shape around him. Drunk as he was, Clint still sank dart after dart into the board's bullseye, to the point that the red cork was almost nonexistent. Phil had loudly proclaimed him to have the eyes of a hawk, and he'd laughingly called Clint 'Hawkeye' for the remainder of the night.

Clint had almost forgotten about that exchange in the wake of his crushing hangover the next morning, and he'd assumed that Coulson had too. It seemed that he was wrong.

"_Patriot calling Hood, are you alright?_" Coulson's voice was softly urgent, and Clint realized that he'd been being paged for some minutes.

"Yeah," Clint replied, startled to hear his voice hoarse and croaking. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm fine."

There was silence on the other end, and Clint could swear he heard a warm smile in Coulson's voice. "_Then pay attention. We've got movement on the inside_."

Ignoring the quiet instructions coming through his commlink, Clint pushed himself up onto his knees and swiftly drew the chain over his head. He suppressed a shiver at the cold metal touching his skin and relished the familiar weight of the tags as they settled against his breastbone.

Picking up his weapon and rising to his feet, he grinned, feeling so much more himself. Coulson was still chattering on the other end of the line. Amusement threaded through his voice as he drew back the bowstring and took aim.

"Mother," he interrupted fondly. "Shut the fuck up."

* * *

_Fin._


	6. Lesson Six: Captain America

Summary: If there was one word Phil Coulson would pick to describe himself, it would be loyal. If Clint Barton had to pick a word to describe Phil Coulson, that wasn't profanity, it would be tenacious. Rated for language.

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Lessons in Tenacity

* * *

_Lesson Six: Captain America_

"What are you doing in my office?"

Clint ignored Phil's question and dropped heavily into the chair, resting his boot heels on the corner of the desk. Phil frowned at the flecks of dried mud that flaked off onto a stack of forms, to Clint's amusement. Wiggling in his seat, the archer rolled his head towards Phil. "I'm bored."

The older agent blinked at him. "I'm sorry?"

"That's sweet of you, but don't be. It's not your fault."

Phil's eyes narrowed at Clint's teasing tone, but his retort was cut short by a solid knock on the door. Phil scowled at Clint for emphasis and called out, "Come in."

A young agent stepped inside, carrying a stack of manila envelopes and a small parcel. Holding it out, he announced, "Here's your mail, Agent Coulson."

Clint watched Phil's eyes light up with a fervent satisfaction as his hand closed around the package. He quickly checked the return address and nodded to the mail carrier. "Thank you very much."

The young agent murmured goodbye to the two men and quietly closed the door behind him as he left. Clint's gaze narrowed on the innocent, brown-wrapped package that disappeared into the depths of Phil's desk drawer, and his brows shot into his hairline when Phil turned the key in the lock and removed it. Leaning back in his chair, Clint let an easy grin develop on his face.

"Worried about mail theft?"

"It _is_ a Class A felony," Phil replied smoothly, his face shuttering in the way that Clint knew meant he was about to change the subject. "And really, you were just bored? If you don't have enough work I can come up with something for you to occupy yourself with. Paperwork, for example."

"What's so great about that package?" Clint wondered out loud, directing his question towards the ceiling. "And who would think to steal it from you here? I mean, we are in SHIELD's secret headquarters."

Phil's lips twitched of their own accord. "As opposed to our public headquarters in Times Square?"

"I'm just curious," Clint stated, holding his arms out in a gesture of peace.

"Well, don't be." Phil's voice was surprisingly firm. Clint knew, logically, that he was treading on thin ice, so he let the matter drop.

For the moment.

* * *

The men left the tiny office simultaneously after a few more minutes of light banter. Phil headed down a few halls to a meeting with Director Fury and Agent Hill. Clint started towards his bunk, but detoured at the last minute and doubled back. Ducking casually into the restroom at the end of the hall, he cleared the stalls and corners, having sufficiently learned his lesson on that score, and climbed onto the seat of the far toilet. Punching the vent cover open, he shoved it aside, hoisting himself through the loose grating and into the air vent.

The ventilation system throughout headquarters was comfortably wide and appallingly unprotected, giving Clint ample space to maneuver through the ducts towards Phil's office. Easing the grate up, he shimmied through the opening and landed gracefully on the balls of his feet behind the desk. He eyed his prize for a moment, then dipped his hand into his back pocket and pulled his lockpicks from his wallet.

The drawer's lock clicked open in less than five seconds and Clint eased it open. The unassuming package was directly on top and Clint pulled it out, tucking one leg beneath him and dropping to sit cross-legged on the floor. Carefully, he peeled back the seal and dumped the contents out, staring with some amount of confusion at what dropped into his lap. Biting back on vocalizing his confusion, he gingerly picked the card up, raising an eyebrow at the faded image printed on the front.

It was an old picture of Captain America, clearly shrunk from a larger poster. The Captain stood on a battlefield, barbed wire curling menacingly at his feet. His circular shield was held aloft, bullets deflecting effortlessly from the painted surface. He gripped a pistol in his other hand and he seemed to be calling to the troops over his shoulder.

Voices drifted suddenly towards the door, alerting Clint to movement in his direction. Abruptly, Clint returned the card to the package and resealed it, placing it back into the drawer and picking the lock closed again.

He had just pulled the vent grating back into position when Phil unlocked his office door and entered. The agent dropped a folder on the corner of his desk and sat heavily with a sigh. Clint held his breath as his friend ran his hands through his thinning hair and abruptly froze. Phil blinked twice, his hand hovering over his desk, before the tension in his body shifted from wariness to outright anger.

"_Barton_." The venom in his handler's voice stopped him cold and Clint gulped. "Get down out of that air vent, or I will pull you down."

Slowly, and with great reluctance, Clint opened the vent and slipped back into the office, aware that he looked every inch a recalcitrant puppy. Phil rose, glaring menacingly at Clint.

"Explain yourself," he demanded through clenched teeth. Clint adopted a mien of innocence, which did not fool his handler in the slightest. "Why did you open my package?"

Clint resisted the urge to fidget, desperately trying to figure out how Phil had known. "I just wanted to see what it was."

"And that gave you the right to break into my _private _office and go through my _private _mail?"

Clint felt the hairs on his arms rise and he spoke unthinkingly. "You were deliberately hiding something that might have been important."

"For the record, Agent Barton" Phil interjected coldly. "I will tell you everything that you need to know, when you need to know it. Anything that you are not apprised of is probably my personal information.

Clint shifted, suitably chastened. "Why were you hiding it anyway? It's nothing that important."

"To you."

The archer felt his head cock curiously. "And it is to you?"

Phil's voice was flat, his eyes icy. "That's none of your business."

"Then make it my business," Clint fired back, his previous repentance evaporated. "This partnership is still new and we need to trust each other if we're going to make this work. You told me that. So, what's the big deal about that fucking card?"

Clint knew that his argument was flimsy at best, but he stood his ground, hoping that Phil would give in based on his stubbornness, if not his logic. Phil stared at him for long moments, the time stretching endlessly on as they stayed locked in a stalemate. Clint had no idea how long they stood there before Phil finally relaxed, releasing the tension in his body with a heavy sigh.

"What do you know about Steve Rogers?" Clint blinked at him, stymied. Phil eased himself into his chair, motioning for Clint to do the same. When they were settled, Phil leveled a piercing stare at Clint.

"Nothing," Clint finally said. "I don't think I've ever heard of him."

Phil nodded, looking down at his desk blotter, and it seemed to Clint that he'd expected the answer. After a moment, Phil glanced back up at Clint. "How about Captain America?"

"No more than most, I suppose," the younger man admitted. His eyes narrowed after a split second of thought. "What does Steve Rogers have to do with it?"

Phil laced his fingers on his desktop and lowered his gaze. His right thumb traced absently over his left index finger and Clint was struck by the odd thought that Phil was nervous. The older man took a deep breath and spoke slowly. "Steve Rogers has been my hero since I was a little boy. He is the bravest man I've ever heard of."

Clint made a face, ignoring Phil's twitchiness. "Then what's with the Captain America trading card? Why the hell are you telling me about this kid?"

Phil's lips kicked up in a half smile and his hands stilled. "Because they're the same person."

"What?"

Phil flashed a grin at the blank look on Clint's face and began to explain. Over the course of a few hours, he told the story of how Steve Rogers of Brooklyn became Captain America, War Hero. At some point, Clint had leaned towards the bookcase and pulled a few books out, uncovering Phil's secret stash of whiskey. The bottle was rather less full by the time the story was finished, and Clint let out a long sigh.

"So why didn't you want to tell me?" Phil coughed lightly, his cheeks coloring.

"I was often," he hesitated, and Clint found himself leaning forward. Phil left out his breath in a swift whoosh. "People made fun of me, for looking up to a hero that was so outdated. They still do, sometimes. When they find out."

The immediate reply of "I wouldn't" was on the tip of his tongue, but Clint held back. Had he been anyone else, the archer probably would have delivered the obvious platitude, but Clint knew Phil well enough to know that the older agent would see it for what it was: an appeasement. So, he bit his tongue. The small smile Phil sent his way assured him that he'd been right to do so.

Phil reached into his drawer and placed the package on his desk, eyeing Clint with a raised brow as he slid a letter opener beneath the flap and opened it. Reverently, he slid the card out, fingering the edges lightly.

Clint watched him quietly for a moment. "None of that really explained the card."

"No, it really didn't," Phil murmured, keeping his eyes on the image in front of him. He chewed absently on his lip. "Most kids collected baseball cards. I collected these."

He dipped a hand into his inner breastpocket and brought out a stack of similar cards, fanning them out on the desk in front of Clint. There were nine total, counting the newest that Phil set carefully at the very end. Clint tentatively reached out one finger, poking lightly through the array to better view the illustrations.

Various images of Captain America in heroic poses looked back at him, some from the comic books that had circulated for a few years and some clearly taken from promotional posters during the war. Captain America walked valiantly towards the viewer in one, decked in a parachutist's coverall and grasping his famous shield. Another two showed him in the same garb on a battlefield, bullets bouncing harmlessly from the shield. A fourth was clearly taken from his travelling stage show as he stood over an unconscious Hitler impersonator, one booted foot keeping the dictator down. The fifth was a promotional poster with the Captain mimicking the famous Uncle Sam pointed pose, asking if the viewer had done their part by purchasing war bonds. The last three were frames from comic books, showing the Captain facing sea horrors and tunnel terrors and infamously punching Hitler.

"I'm just missing one more," Phil said quietly, snapping Clint from his silent perusal.

Clint tore his gaze away from the cards and met Phil's eyes. "Which one?"

"This one," Phil answered, pulling up a picture on his desktop. Captain America saluted the two men with a small smile, his original shield hanging down at his side. "It's the most rare, and therefore, the most expensive." He offered Clint half a smile. "SHIELD pays well, but not that well."

Clint nodded silently, his attention still riveted on the image on the screen. Phil watched him curiously for a few moments, before minimizing the window and clearing his throat.

"Director Fury has another mission for you," he said lightly, steering the conversation away from Captain America. He picked up the folder he'd dropped earlier from the corner of his desk and held it up. "Read over it tonight. And we'll discuss it in the morning."

"Alright." Clint snatched the brief from Phil's hand and moved towards the door. "See you tomorrow."

* * *

They departed the next evening for eastern Europe and Phil was quietly grateful that Clint didn't bring up the cards again. In fact, Clint was surprisingly tight-lipped about the entire exchange, which worried Phil more than he cared to admit. The only strange part of the entire mission was the conversation that occurred as Clint was taking his position.

"_Hey Mother?_"

Phil sat a little straighter in his chair, readjusting his commlink. He rubbed his tired eyes with a fist. "Yes, Hawkeye?"

"_If a crime is committed while on a mission, it's not considered punishable, right?_"

Phil froze, his mouth hanging slightly open. Closing his eyes in consternation, he balled one fist tightly. There was a short silence and when he spoke again, his voice was quietly strained. "If you get arrested for indecent exposure, I will let you rot in jail."

"_Don't be silly,_" Clint replied immediately, his tone oddly pensive. "_Any exposure of mine is not indecent. You didn't answer my question._"

Phil sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Any laws broken in the course of a mission are generally ignored, so long as they are small enough offenses."

"_Okay, good._"

Phil groaned aloud. "I don't want to know. I just don't want to know."

* * *

Weeks passed and the subject of Captain America and Phil's trading cards had not been broached since Clint had broken into his office, each man slipping smoothly into their old routine of work and casual banter. Phil was quietly grateful that the matter had dropped in the interim, although some part of him still waited for the other shoe to fall.

He hadn't quite expected this, however.

He'd just needed a new pen to finish the four-one-five for their latest mission, so he'd tugged open his desk drawer and there it was, lying innocently between a box of staples and the packet of pens he needed.

Captain America smiled at him, his right hand brought up in a jaunty salute. Phil gingerly picked up the card by the edges, almost disbelievingly, and rubbed one hand across his mouth, his lips pulling back into a wide grin of their own accord. A small laugh escaped him as he flipped the card over and read the back, tamping down on the emotion welling in his chest.

Setting the card back down, he opened his bottom desk drawer to reveal the small locker he kept there and opened it, pulling out the stack of cards. Placing his newest acquisition on top, he raised his face to the ceiling, staring through the grating of the air vent. There had been no reason to suspect that Clint was even in the vent, no sound of breathing or noise of shifting limbs, but Phil knew with a certainty that the archer was up there.

"Breaking and entering, petty theft," he said with a smile. "I think we can absolve those. Thank you, Clint."

* * *

_Fin._


End file.
